Belly Shirt
by Yume no Wolfie
Summary: [one-shot]So.. Why exactly does Malik wear a belly shirt?[one-shot]


**Disclaimer:** Ookami-sama does not own Yuugiou in any way, shape, or form. I do not own Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp.

**A/N:** This came to me one day when I found out that one of my shirts was too little for me and rode up on my belly. Ke he. A fangirl's mind works in mysterious ways... -

:::--:::

Okay, I want to get something straight with you guys, well, actually not _guys_ as in _males_, unless you're gay. I mean _female_. Particularly my fangirl club that stalks me everywhere I go. I shudder to think that they know my every move, taste, favorite foods, birthday, height, weight, shirt, and pant size. Seriously, what other guys have to deal with this? Besides Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp? Maybe not even them. Kids like Bakura, Ryou, Yuugi, Otogi, and Seto are all stalked.

Well, about what I wanted to get straight with you... I'm not gay, okay. I don't _like_ Bakura or Ryou, even though Ryou's a good friend. I don't _love_ the Pharoah or his Hikari. But I still don't like them, either. They're just.. too good, I suppose. I don't _have a crush on_ Seto Kaiba or Otogi Ryuuji. The main theories that lead to these many branches of theories, as if from a Theory Tree, is my belly shirt. Yes, it is lavendar. Yes, it is a quote-unquote "belly shirt." Yes, it has gold chains on it. But, there is a good explaination for all of this. As I will tell you. Just lis-.. No! NO! Don't tackle me! GUARDS! GUARDS! SECURITY!!!

-ahem- That's better. It started like every other day, I was looking through my wardrobe and selecting what I would wear for the day......

:::--:::

"Hmm... Should I wear the red sweater or the black shirt?" As I contemplated this, I was bare-chested and clad in those khaki cargo pants I _love_ when Rishid walked in.

"Malik-sama.." Rishid began, "Isis has left for the day to go shopping."

"Oh.." I replied, still not taking my eyes from the two choices. I was torn between them. Finally, I chose the black shirt and pulled it on.

"Hope Isis doesn't _waste_ the credit card," I sighed and ran a hand through my hair in frustration. Isis had a tendency to get us into debt. Fast. And, part of it, was due to her spontanious urges to go shopping, "So, where to now, Rishid-kun?"

"Umm.." Rishid had his head bowed, "Wherever you choose, Malik-sama." he replied respectfully and left. I don't know what for, he just did.

I shrugged and went into the kitchen to fix me something for lunch. A sandwich, most likely. I browsed through the refrigerator and selected some meat (honey-roasted turkey) and bread (whole weat) and other random things (tomato, mayo..).

Then, it all went bad.

"Maaalik!" Like a hawk's war cry, Isis stormed in the front door, screaming my name at the top of her lungs, "Where's my diary?" She roared, two shopping bags in hand, fuming silently, glaring holes in my head.

A half-eaten sandwich hung out of my mouth and muffled my surprised cry, "Huh?" And choked. I coughed until I hacked up the chewed up piece of meat, tomato, mayo, and bread into the trash. And I still looked a little blue.

"What 'diary'?" I asked, "I didn't know you had a _diary_!"

"Well, I did!" Isis screamed, "And you have it, I know you do, Malik-_chan!_"

Gasp! Not the "chan"!

"You. Did. Not." I growled.

"Give. Me. Back. My. Diary."

I swear, we were inches apart.

"This means war," I hissed.

"So be it." Isis smirked and backed away, "I'll take you up on that challenge, and whoop your girly ass."

"I'm _not_ girly!"

Little did I know what was in store for me...

-------------------------------

After a long day of total _boredom_, I returned home from my roaming Domino streets. I saw a few people I didn't know. But, hey, it never hurt to say "konnichiwa" once in awhile. I think Isis said something like how I "lack social skills." Ra, if she'd only _seen_ all the fangirls hanging off me when I walked around town. I couldn't turn my back without hearing giggles and comments about my "tight ass."

As I was saying about being gay. I'm not. As a matter of fact, I'm quite straight. Ask anyone (except my sister. She _loves_ to torture me). For instance, ask the girl who works at the coffee house. She should know. We've made-out a few times. She liked it. At least, I think she did.

So, anyway, I was going home. I opened the door with my key and went to crash in my room. Which, by the way, was filled with posters of models and all that good stuff every horomonal guy needs to have. I opened my door.

Ra forbid.

All sorts of frilly, white blouses, skirts, and panties littered my bed.

"What the--" I trailed, "Why are they..? Who do they..?" But, all these questions went unanswered. And I heard a distinct clearing of the throat behind me.

It was Isis, grinning like a hyena.

"I noticed your wardrobe was needing to be more feminine. And I noticed you were out of these." She motioned to the pile of clothes, "I have bras if you need them, but you're so underdeveloped, I don't think you'll need them for a few years."

I flushed, "Isis..." I growled, on the verge of blowing up, "I'll get you for this..."

-------------------------------

Now, if there's one thing you need to know, Isis has a boyfriend. And his name is Bomani. He's a very weird, eccentric guy. At least, I think he is. And they have been going out for quite some time now. He always has his head in a computer. Typing, typing, typing. Over and over. I wonder if he gets paid for this stuff...

Anyway, I was determined to get Isis back. And, I had a plan. A very nasty, dirty plan that required lots of thinking and planning. Sure, it _seemed_ simple to the untrained eye, but it _was_ complicated.

My plan was this: snip some wires, perhaps flirt with him, and then convince him that Isis was a lesbian.

I swallowed. _I hope this works_... I remember thinking.

Like a shadow, I slid into the basement of the house, my lithe figure slipping through the window. Well, it would've, unless my foot hadn't've gotten caught on the window sill. I swear, for five minutes, I was dangling feet above the ground. And, when I finally became _un_-caught, I landed with a dull "oof" on the floor.

"Great, just great.." I mumbled, wiping the cobwebs off of my shirt. Just what I needed, the fear of spiders.

Now, I've never liked spiders or snakes since I was bitten by each when I was a little kid.

So, I slunk off to the electrical box and switched off the main power wires. Big mistake. The lights went out and it was pitch black.

"Damn." I hissed and tried to feel my way back to the window... But I ended up running into something squishy and warm. I squeezed whatever it was with my hands and felt mortified. Suddenly, a flashlight went on.

Dear Ra, I have a death wish to make...

It was my sister Isis. I was clutching my sister's breast! I gasped, utterly mortified and turning an odd mixture of green and red. I was sooo dead.

Isis screamed and pushed away, "Malik, what the hell are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? What are _you_ doing here?" As if I had a right to talk.

"Well, Bomani just so happens to be _my_ boyfriend, not yours. Sorry."

"I'm not gay!" I yelled.

"You'd better get out before Bomani gets down here and he kicks you out of here."

I scampered to the window as fast as I could and climbed out.

-------------------------------

Okay, so I had been beaten.. Twice. And I wasn't about to be beaten again. So, I rushed home to beat Isis, but saw her speed ahead of me in her car.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I ran faster, but tripped and fell on a pebble. I got back up and started running again.

I got home, but I was too late.

Alas, all of my precious clothes. My blue jeans, khaki shirts, khaki pants, T-shirts, and even the skirts, blouses, and panties Isis had teased me with were all aflame in the front yard. And, there was Isis, feeding the fire with gasoline and matches. I could almost _swear_ she was possessed.

"NOO!" I yelled, "ISIS!!"

-------------------------------

Three time's a charm, right? Well, not when the third time all your clothes go up in flames. All I had left was a purple shirt, which, by the way, reached all the way to my hips; my khaki cargo pants; and that black shirt I had worn the day that Isis had burned _all_ of my clothes.

It had been a week since my clothes had been sent to hell, and I had been in charge of my own laundry. I hadn't washed my shirts or pants in a week, and it finally got to a point where I couldn't stand it anymore. So, I went down into the laundry room and piled them in the washer with a built-in dryer, completely missing the "laundromat clean **only**" inscribed on the itchy tag in the back of both my shirts.

I waited what seemed like an hour until they were done. I sat there the whole time, looking over a Playboy, with my feet propped up on a chair. I was at the point of drooling over a nice-looking red-head when the machine stopped. I opened the door.

Defeated a fourth time...

My shirts had shrunk what seemed three sizes. And we were too in debt to buy anything... I looked around frantically. My pants were alright. I know, I stripped right there and pulled them on. My buttocks still looked fine, the legs of the pants didn't stick too tightly to mine.

My shirt, on the other hand, was not so fine. I had to pull hard in order to get them over my head. And, when I did, they were only half the size they were before.

I groaned and heard the television blast, "The Battle City Tournament is just about to start! All contenders..."

--Owari--


End file.
